


Spoiled Lettuce

by Zarathastra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Cock Worship, D/s, It's pretty full-on, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Riding Crop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 10:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8052433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarathastra/pseuds/Zarathastra
Summary: Complete PWP with a little D/s dynamics thrown in for good measure in a vain attempt to demonstrate that it’s not actually complete PWP, (which it is).  It follows on a short while after my previous stories “Paladin” and “The Palace Guard”, so they should possibly be read first, if only for context, although it’s not strictly necessary.  I have plans to indicate which order my stories should be read in for clarity, but I need to figure out how to do that first.  Anyone looking for a plot here will be sadly disappointed, in spite of that I hope you enjoy it.  Self-beta’d, so all mistakes are my own.  If you find any, please let me know gently, I’m a bit fragile just now.





	Spoiled Lettuce

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I haven't been around. Some tough things to deal with. Hopefully life will get a bit better in the future.
> 
> To anyone who may be offended by what the tags indicate, I’m sorry. Please heed the warnings. Maybe before you start reading you’d be more comfortable passing this story over and finding something more to your liking.
> 
> I still know nothing of D/s dynamics and apologise for any errors of ignorance. They haven’t been made in order to offend.

__Sherlock never tired of the first moment.

There was no sweeter moment than that first second, when even though John remained standing militarily straight he was, in the same bisected second, kneeling on the floor with his head bent, waiting for whatever Sherlock wanted to do.  It was appealing beyond measure and the tension in Sherlock drained away as the thought went through his head: ‘ _At last’_.

 “Never mind the groceries,” he said as John made to drop the bags on the kitchen counter.

 “But the lettuce will spoil.  And the milk.”

Sherlock gave a little shrug.  By the time they’d finished the groceries would be beyond saving.  “Let them.  There’s more in the supermarket.”  And he pointed to the floor in front of him.

That, it seemed, was all it took these days.  He smiled at the sight as John dropped the bags on the floor.  So much for John’s latest attempt to fill him up with greenery, as if he were a rabbit.

 “You’re not going to ask what I want.” Sherlock stated.  “Perhaps you already know?  Let’s see if you can guess, shall we?”  He frowned.  “Perhaps you don’t.  You’re still standing, I see.”

 He tried to keep the smile off his face as John rapidly stripped his clothes off and went to his knees, staring at the lino under him, waiting to be relieved.  Just the way he’d pictured it.  Oh yes, this was caretaking, wasn’t it?  Giving John what he really needed.

 “Any second thoughts?” he asked.  John shook his head without looking up.  If he allowed himself to look at Sherlock’s face the spell would be broken and he wouldn’t be able to continue.

Instead, John looked down the length of his own body, and tried to hold in the deep groan as he saw his own hard member straining in a futile attempt to magically break free from its black leather bonds, feeling it pulse with frustrated want and a small thrill of jeopardy.  He was so exposed like this, genitals on display, bound as they had been for the last hour as he travelled to and from the supermarket.  It was already uncomfortable kneeling here, waiting.

"Ah, John,” Sherlock observed shrewdly, “given the choice you will always follow the danger.  That’s why you’re with me.”

 John swallowed dryly and dared to speak.  “What danger am I in by being here with you?”  He had decided to trust Sherlock Holmes.  So far, at least since Sherlock’s return, he hadn’t been disappointed.

“In all the ways that matter, John, you belong to me.  And you know it.  You just need to be reminded.”

John couldn’t fathom the reason for the reinforcing of a declaration that he was already familiar with, until he saw the riding crop in Sherlock’s hand.  His Dominant was standing there staring at him, waiting for him to refuse.  No way was he going to do that.  He knew the way this was going to go.  It took less than a second for him to bend even lower, leaning on his forearms, resting his forehead on the lino, letting his arse push up into the air, just waiting.  And then he received his reward and breathed out softly with the pain and the pleasure of it.  No matter that he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, it wasn’t even about that.  Sherlock wanted this, so John did, too.

Sherlock kept the force of his discipline light, flexible, ready to retreat at the first sign of distress or difficulty.  He could read the thoughts going through John’s mind, it was easy, and although he said nothing he thought that John would come to understand.  It wasn’t any kind of a punishment.  His intent was to stimulate, not to injure.  His wrist was flexible and carefully controlled so as not to let things go too far and inflict too severe an unremitting pace.  No, punishment was the last thing that this was meant to be.

He got his justification as he heard the swelling moan from the direction of the huddled figure bent over on the lino and in spite of himself he wanted to ask ‘Is this too harsh?’  His intention was to do no harm.  As a doctor, John should appreciate that.  Whatever this may be to him, he had to keep in mind what it was to John.  He couldn’t leave it up to John to be the guardian of their ongoing diversion and could only hope that John’s own desire didn’t lead him to misguidedly bear the single minded, demanding usage that Sherlock himself may not have been able to control. 

He paused in what he was doing and looked down at John’s bent back and the marks on his arse.  No, he wouldn’t be going too far; he knew how to control himself.  And even if he didn’t, of course John would tell him if he strayed too far into the realms of harm.  Wouldn’t he?

 A frown line appeared on Sherlock’s brow as he continued to study John.  He hadn’t expected this combination of control and devotion which had risen in him to complement John’s own bottomless love.  His wrist remained almost completely stiff, utilised only to facilitate his hand in motion, keeping the movement uniform, no deviation in the strength of the strikes he’d established, and he watched as the pattern he was aiming for was gradually painted on the skin of John’s arse in dark red stripes.

Part of John wanted to get up and tell this insufferable, egotistical tosser that he wasn’t as all-powerful as he believed himself to be.  But he knew he was lying to himself.  Which of them was wielding the riding crop and which of them was kneeling on the floor with his genitals bound in leather and his heart pounding, eagerly waiting for the next strike?  He moaned and gasped in gratification.

At length, Sherlock’s hand stilled.  He laid the crop down and instead reached to touch the flesh he had just marked.  It was hot, red all over, with the deeper red stripes giving it a herring-bone pattern that reminded him of the material of one of Mycroft’s suits.  Red though, not grey.

John continued to moan his pleasure as if the crop was still thrashing him, hoping for more, moving his arse, making his cock swing obscenely between his legs as he began panting.  It hadn’t been nearly enough.

Sherlock could see that.  It was why he’d stopped.  He made John stay absolutely still as he unzipped, parted the twin halves of John’s arse and pushed forward slowly, sliding easily on the slick lubricant he always made John apply these days.  He was very aware of his balls resting against John’s upturned bottom, feeling them rub against the hot flesh as he moved between the cheeks of the arse that now belonged to him in any sense of the word, rubbing the red, swollen entrance.  He really wanted to stay like this for a while, loved the drag and slide and the sound trapped in John’s throat which threatened to turn into a whine of ravenous need. 

He could have just carried on rutting but he found himself wanting to admire the pattern he’d left once more before it faded.  He let himself slide out of the slick haven he was lodged in and just looked at what he’d done, pleased by the bereft sound John made as he drew away.

_Ahhh, that was so good…_

Even though he said so himself - _false modesty be damned -_ he approved of what he’d done there.  The skin of John’s behind was such a deep, pleasingly dark pink colour and striped with that skilfully positioned perfect design of deeper red markings.  He hadn’t even broken the skin; it was still intact and very tempting.  He couldn’t resist running his fingers over the pattern the welts made, feeling the still tender skin warm his fingers as they rode over the little swellings.

“I wanted to take the hard edges off,” he said, stroking the flesh gently, “knock out all the sharp corners.  But you don’t want that.  You want to feel it all, don’t you?  You want to dash yourself against the walls, just to prove to yourself that you’re alive, that you can overcome.”  He moved his hand from the welts he’d inflicted to stroke John’s face, finding that equally pleasing.  An untamed smile passed over his lips as he moved to stand and pulled John’s pliant body upright and around to kneel facing him, John’s mouth in perfect alignment with his prick.

“We need to move on,” he said.  “Such hurried repetition is tiresome.  And you have many things to learn.  Open up.”

Before he even knew what he was doing, without even thinking, John opened his mouth and Sherlock went in as far as he could go.

“I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that I have a certain curiosity as to the mechanics of all manner of sexual acts.  I intend to use you to help satisfy my curiosity.  This deed is new to me.  Is it new to you too, John?” he asked, a little short of breath.  “Shall we learn together?”

John waited.  He hadn’t been given instruction yet.  Sherlock didn’t know it but he was right; he’d never done this before.  There had been a couple of near-misses, but he’d never before had another man’s prick in his mouth.  The others had only wanted his arse, trying no doubt to prove their mastery over him by guiding him down and letting him provide the pleasure they required.  This would be different. 

And it was.

“What I require is that you use your tongue only.  No suction.  Understood, Watson?”

  

John nodded silently.  The use of his surname told him the way to go.  His commander had ordered him not to suck, so he wouldn’t.  Instead he bathed the hard organ with his gentle tongue, intent on moistening it with his spit, feeling his mouth fill with saliva even as he acknowledged how much he was going to love undertaking this act of veneration in the future.

The hard penis leapt in his mouth like a desperate salmon soaring for its life, counter to the flow of a crashing weir, and he was a little daunted by the unexpected instant of joy he felt at the thought that this simple organ was currently engaged in mastering him so completely.  But he was a doctor after all; it was his nature to give care, whatever kind it may be.  He held it cradled in his mouth, laving it with his saliva, and kept it safe and warm there, gentling it slowly, savouring the feel and taste and the sounds of pleasure he was drawing from the throat of the man he was worshipping.  He kept his head moving, the cilia of his tongue rubbing over the ridges of hard flesh in his mouth, gently bearing down on the tip settled between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

He didn’t see the look of sheer wonder he was receiving as Sherlock gazed down on him, and wasn’t to know that he’d been wrong all this time; he wasn't the only one in this room, or in this relationship, who was hopelessly in love.

John kept on licking, shaft and root and tip, taking his time to gently reverence the thin skin of Sherlock’s throbbing balls, saliva dripping from his mouth to coat his chin and trickle down his chest, uncaring that he was drooling all over himself.  Would Sherlock actually want to be sucked off, he wondered?  Or was this just a slight hold-up before he was back as before, folded on his knees with his legs open and his forehead touching the floor?  His tongue was beginning to ache from the exertion but he went on licking, waiting for what came next.

What came next was Sherlock halting him briefly, bending down to fondle his bound genitals before removing the cock ring and ball spreader, saying:  “Show me what you’ve been saving for me, John.  I want to see it.”  And as John resumed his licking, it took no more than the pleasure of doing that, of being ordered to do it, to make John close his eyes and come spontaneously on the floor in front of him, causing him to moan loudly and falter in his worship of Sherlock’s cock.

“Good boy, John,” Sherlock murmured, panting a little. “You must do this again for me some time.”  _‘Soon’_ , he thought, gathering up John’s ejaculate in his palm and pressing it to the doctor’s mouth to be licked off. 

The tongue, he thought, was an underrated organ.

~~~

  

Sherlock could mesmerize with his voice.  Others would hear it and know it for what it was, putting barriers in place to prevent it from hypnotising them.  But John was different.  Whenever he heard that tone he allowed it to bewitch him.  He would put aside his natural instinct to fight and submit to it whole-heartedly.

John didn’t want to be cherished or coddled, or treated with kid gloves all the time.  He wanted to be taken, but taken by a man, like a man, and he wanted to have to fight it, so that later, in the early morning, the rare, gentle approach Sherlock adopted wasn’t what he needed and he was disappointed that he wasn’t getting what he was craving because there were occasional times when Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to be quite that severe and overbearing. 

James Sholto had given him what he needed, Bill Murray had just gone ahead and taken what he wanted, and even on occasion Mike Stamford had agreed to give him what he hungered after.  Why couldn’t Sherlock?  In many ways Mary had been the true spirit of what he wanted, had given him much of what he’d sought.  She among the others he’d given himself to had seen things in him that even Sherlock had not.  And Sarah, that one time, had started to explore the road that they might have travelled, had Sherlock not tempted him away.  John often wondered what sleeping at the end of her bed would ultimately have led to.

~~~

“Last night was very interesting,” Sherlock said the next morning, stroking John’s cock maddeningly lightly, “may I see the pattern again, please?  “You’d very much like me to do it again, wouldn’t you?”

From their adjacent positions prone on Sherlock’s bed it was easy to see John’s expression.  A slow blush crept up his features but at the same time his face harboured a fierce glow of gratification. 

“Of course you would,” Sherlock continued in complete self-justification, tamping down on the surge of elation he experienced, seeing his answer in the burning gaze John was turning on him.

It was lovely, accurately placed, picked out in a series of rosy pink and slightly raised welts that made him proud of his skill with a riding crop.  The stripes were thin and even and he was proud of not having broken the skin.  Later he would make use of the jar of antiseptic cream he kept in the bedside drawer but for now he couldn’t resist running his fingertip lightly over the marks and tried to keep his breathing even at the quiet noises John made as his fingers touched the still-sore flesh.  It was wonderful.  That entire few months practise on cadavers and sides of meat had been worth it.  There wasn’t a bruise in sight.  He could allow himself to be satisfied with this.

“Do they hurt?” he asked quietly, running his fingers repeatedly over the pattern, keeping any apprehension out of his voice but continuing to touch the stripes all the same, glad that John couldn’t see the gentle smile of fulfilment on his face as the tissue under his fingers smarted and twitched.

He wasn’t expecting the words “Well, of course they bloody well do!” but this was John Watson after all, he was never really going to react the way anyone else in this position would, and Sherlock recognised again that being with this man was always going to be a fairly unique experience.

After that one acerbic remark John fell silent and Sherlock could find nothing to say in response.  He regarded the look that had settled on John’s face closely, a look so serene and seemingly unfocussed.  Was it calculated to appear that way for his benefit, or was it simply what it appeared to be, a calm and uncomplaining expression?  He was too new at this, he couldn’t tell 

John rested his right cheek against the soft skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh.  Turning his head, he nipped gently and kissed the tissue lightly until it rippled under the thin skin of his own lips.  His tongue moved slowly, savouring the texture of the flesh and the overlying flavour of Sherlock’s still lingering bath products.  Mango.  He hadn’t known he liked mango until this moment, hadn’t even known that Sherlock went for such an exotic fragrance.  If he’d ever wondered about it he would’ve said Sherlock went in for something a lot plainer and more practical.  The taste went all the way down to the skin under Sherlock’s genitals, so he followed it there, learning as he went just what he could do with only his tongue.  And there it was again, the living organ that made him want to get on his knees every time he saw it.  He would never want to stop worshipping it.  He wanted it to breach him, fill him, take him, and he would only ask for more.

And as he opened his mouth to acknowledge his rightful master, in turn Sherlock tipped John’s head back, stopping the worship of his cock, and closed his eyes briefly.  _‘I didn’t see this coming,’_ he thought.  _‘I have things to do_ , _I…’_   It wasn’t for John to initiate this; it was for Sherlock to give it to him with no choice in the matter.  But every thought in his head simply stuttered and halted, he lightly grasped a handful of hair as he gazed up at the ceiling and pulled on the greying strands, drawing John closer, groaning deeply.

John gave a slight, muffled cry as his hair was tugged and his head was pulled closer to Sherlock’s groin but correctly interpreted what Sherlock wanted.  He opened his jaws, letting the swelling prick enter his mouth and head for his throat.  This time, he used tongue and suction together and hearing no objection, he indulged himself by keeping it up until Sherlock slid further in as gently as he could given the circumstances and came in a flood of semen that John swallowed joyfully, knowing that his own release would be still some time away.  But that was okay.  It was what he was here for, and it was what he wanted.

~~~

Hours later, Sherlock had almost forgotten that John was lying on his belly beside him, head turned, once again accommodating his Dom’s stiffening cock in his mouth.  His mind wasn’t even really in the room at the moment. 

That display in the sitting room he’d put on for his brother’s benefit had been a small pyrrhic victory for Sherlock.  Mycroft had a deal of respect for John’s abilities and Sherlock still remembered with some gratification the feeling of besting his brother, simply by a graphic demonstration of how much John Watson was in his thrall.

But now, in the light of John’s anguished surrender, he saw it for what it had really been, sheer humiliation for John and a hollow triumph for himself.  Not to mention the look on Mycroft’s face which spoke of boundaries traversed and trust betrayed.  He had crossed several lines with that one action and allowed things which had been intended to be kept solely between John and himself to spill out for public gaze.  He needed to mend a fence there, too, he thought in a moment of insight, ruminating on the best way of doing that.

He scratched his blunt nails thoughtfully in a feather-light graze over John’s scalp and watched a deep shiver travel down the length of the man’s body.  It pleased him, so he did it again, keeping it up over and over in the same spot as he spoke softly.

“You let me tether you,” he said, “although you didn’t like it and hated that it kept you in place while I left you alone again - the thing you dread most in the world if I read you correctly.  You let me control you in public, all the time afraid that someone would know what you were enduring for me, although it was that single act that turned you on more than any other, was it not, feeling the vibrator tormenting you?  Yet you made no move to reposition or remove it, or to ask me to do so.”

He took a breath and finally got to the heart of the matter.  “You are learning to worship my body in many different ways.  You even let me take you in front of my brother when he charged in to release you from what he considered was my mistreatment of you.  I wish to ask your forgiveness for that.   I took my differences with Mycroft out on you and used our new connection to humiliate and embarrass him, which I now see only served to impart those same feelings to you.  It was unfair and not worthy of either of us.  I am truly sorry, John.  It will never happen again.”  He paused lightly, deliberately.  “Unless you want it to.”

John let Sherlock’s dick slide out of his mouth but still he couldn’t speak.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want it to happen again.  He just didn’t want it to happen with the world and his wife looking on.  Especially not Mycroft Holmes, the British Government in full judgemental mode.

Sherlock gently turned John’s face up to look at him, sideways on.  This was surprising.  He’d expected some of it, the ferocity of John’s love, the anger that had needed expression.  What he hadn’t expected was that John would still want this after all they’d gone through, separately and together.  Something, he thought, might have changed irrevocably between them.  Was the man who regularly knelt at his feet even John Watson any longer?  That thought gave him pause.  He’d never intended to modify who or what John was, only to ensure that he stayed right where he was, at Sherlock’s feet.  It took a long hard look at his own psyche and a trip back in time to his early life for him to realise with a wrench of dismay that what he cherished he also needed to own.

Perhaps it was time to let go, go back to the way they’d been before?  It would remove a complication and spare him from further exposure and the pressure of John’s expectations.  But looking into John’s darkened blue eyes he realised that it was already too late for that.  He’d played his hand too well.  John was his now, deeply subjugated, and he was obligated to continue whatever it was that they’d begun here.

“It wasn’t entirely unwanted, was it, John?”  He hadn’t intended for that to sound plaintive but it did somehow.  “It was something you’d been craving and would never have admitted to.  I was only showing you what you really needed.  I wonder what else you would let me do?” he mused, back to being himself again in that split-second.

John couldn’t answer because he didn’t know.  He only knew himself to be profoundly in love with this maddening man, the way he’d never been with anyone else, and like the lovers in the past he regarded with the most admiration, Sherlock had felt free to use his military training against him. 

John’s drive, even now, was to do as he was told, he didn’t even think about it, his body well trained to obey the man he considered a commander.  And in spite of what he’d said before, sitting on that bench, he did regard Sherlock as his commander, his superior in almost every way.  Almost, he thought to himself ruefully.

“Is this something you want to go on with?” Sherlock felt obliged to ask and went almost weak with relief when John said:

“Yes.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied and, judging himself to be hard enough now to take what he wanted once again, turned John over onto his belly.  “Then let’s begin as I mean to go on.”

Beneath him, John smiled and closed his eyes in bliss.

End


End file.
